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between the ribs. Sensing the attack, he whirls, the knife enters his right side. The violent contact of steel and bone snaps the blade free from the handle, and as she loses her balance he slashes once with his sword, carving her belly, the wound superficial but the force of the blow propelling her backwards, until the backs of her knees hit one of the stone seats and she sits down with an unceremonious thump. The three of them face each other, three points of a triangle. The broken knife blade protrudes from the warrior's body, and he pulls it out with his hand, not caring that it slices his palm open. He blinks heavily. Somehow his head has cleared. Feeling is returning to his body, and pain with it. Good. Just the dull throb in his side, a minor wound. The cut above his nose, easily  |
repaired with some stitches. He stares down at the woman. Her hair has fallen down over her face, and the ends of it are slick with blood. Her left hand holds the stump of her right arm, and he sees her chest rise and fall with painful breaths. You -- he begins. She is laughing and the unnaturalness of it chills him. The sound neither rises or drops in intensity, she is like an automaton whose on-switch has been pressed. Do I -- know you? he says. She stops laughing. A single eye is visible under the hair, and it fixes on him. She is not seeing him. She is delirious.  |
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